February 22, Puri, India

The Sari Shop

We leave the heat and traffic behind,

When the door man ushers us through

The big glass doors.

A greeter man

Comes over and looks at me expectantly.

"No saris" I say

"I am looking for a Kurta."

All six of the first floor sales men

Are standing at the ready,

Behind their counters

In front of shelves of 

Shimmering multicoloured saris

Stacked along with others of similar 

Colour and fabric.

Each sari is perfectly folded

In a clear plastic bag.

We leave the first floor visual feast behind.

Another man accompanies us up in the elevator

To the second floor.

It is identical to the first floor

But the shelves are stacked high

With colourful kurtas not saris.

The greeter on this floor eyes me over.

"We have no Kurta to fit the Ma'am.

Would you care to see fabric?"

Or maybe for your daughter?"

Sadly I agree.

"For my daughter"

We are seated at a counter and

Served small bottles of water.

The staff proceed to open packages of kurtas

And lay them in front of me.

Most are colours or patterns that I would never buy.

Finally I am shown one I like

And that I hope Danica might like.

Despite my choice having been made,

More and more kurtas are unwrapped.

Eventually, the sales push is over

And we are accompanied back down

In the elevator.

The kurta travels a separate route

But is there waiting for us at the first sales desk

Where we get the printed bill.

We pay the bill at the second sales desk.

We present the paid bill at the third sales desk.

And at the fourth checkout station,

We are given our purchase,

All meticulously folded and packaged.

The door man ushers us back into 

The heat and bedlam of the street.

The combination of smells and noise seem especially

Jarring after the quiet formality

Of the sari shop.